


wherever i'm with you

by sleepinnude



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, F/M, Fanfiction Gap, Happy Ending because i'm sensitive, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Kissing, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepinnude/pseuds/sleepinnude
Summary: Dean takes Cas to his motel after dealing with the Rit Zien angel in Idaho and tries to convince him to come home with him.-a 9.06 Heaven Can't Wait Fanfiction Gap piece
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 253





	wherever i'm with you

**Author's Note:**

> this didn't exactly turn out as i was expecting? but okay!  
> title from "home" by edward sharpe and the magnetic zeros

It’s hard to look at Cas this way, _human_.

“Don’t you think?” Dean asked Sam as he unloaded burritos while Cas was showering, after the reaper, after they finally found him again but before Dean learned that he would have to turn him away once more. “It’s like...when the newspaper prints wrong and the words get blurry or something.”

Sam gave him one of those two-second-too-long stares that meant he had no clue what Dean was talking about and was trying to gauge whether or not it was appropriate to make a joke about it. Before Dean could backtrack, Sam apparently decided on _not_ and huffed out something that was not, by the strictest definition, a laugh. “Maybe it’s just the beard,” he joked and Dean laughed and then Cas was back with wet hair, looking soft and rumpled and Dean had to look away.

Standing in the threshold of a motel room in Rexford, Idaho, the feeling comes back to Dean. Stronger now, so much stronger it turns his stomach. Cas is standing at the foot of the bed, all bad posture and gazing into the cut on his palm like he could divine something from his blood. _Human blood_ , something in Dean gutters out, and the memory of an even softer, glow-light Castiel sing-songing that he was “always happy to bleed for the Winchesters” hits him at center mass.

“Hey,” he lilts and thank god he’s working on two hours of sleep in as many days because it makes his voice rough and firm instead of the uncertain waver he expected. “Lemme take a look at that.” He walks forward, hands out, but stops when Cas tucks the hand into his chest, like an animal protecting itself.

“Are you familiar with the phenomenon of stigmata?” Cas asks, and he’s still looking into the well of his hand, a rusty pool of blood gathering along the life-lines and love-lines. Dean doesn’t answer, so Cas continues. “It’s not real, or at least, not in the way the religious would like it to be, but I find it curious that, as a human, I’ve borne two of the five Holy Wounds.”

Dean clears his throat and, because he’s an asshole, says, “Yeah, I don’t think it counts when it comes from rose thorns.”

Cas looks up at him then, finally, and his brow is furrowed, bottom lip pulled in a little and he shakes his head like Dean couldn’t possibly understand, like he’s explaining poetry to fish. “It never counts.” He wanders into the bathroom, as if on a whim, and sits on the toilet seat.

 _Maybe it’s the slouch_ , Dean tells himself, still trying to figure out just what it is about his friend that makes his eyes cross when he looks. _Maybe it’s that he doesn’t smell like metal and dandelion sap anymore._

Dean trails into the bathroom after him and, with stuttering fingers, cleans out the ragged cut along Cas’s palm. He rustles for the first aid kit and dresses the gash with all the care he would give a critical gunshot wound. He talks as he works, ambling on about Crowley and Kevin and Sam. Nothing substantial, just idle stories and tossed out insults. The whole time Cas is silent. He doesn’t even flinch when Dean pokes a little too hard or pulls the bandage a little too tightly. Dean doesn’t realize he’s finished until he’s already been holding Cas’s hand in his for a few seconds, not doing anything else.

“How does that feel?” he asks, clearing his throat, standing suddenly to pack things away.

“Strange,” Cas answers.

“Is it too tight or something? Can you move all your fingers?” He looks down to find Cas doing just that, pulling his fingers into his palm, making a loose fist, unfolding them again.

“Most things feel strange, I’ve found.” And then he’s looking up at Dean with critical eyes and asking, “Do you ever tire of urinating, Dean?”

Something in Dean snaps at that and he laughs so hard it hurts, has to pitch over and lean against the counter of the sink. “Yeah, buddy, I guess I do.”

Cas nods and Dean figures that means that he has to use the bathroom so he trails out to let him. He means to change in the brief privacy, tug out of his jacket and shirts and jeans and pull on one of the softer, worn tees. He gets as far as shuffling out of the jacket and over-shirt when the thought that Cas probably doesn’t have any pajamas with him catches at his mind. Should he pull out an extra pair for him?

He’s still debating, a tee shirt weighed in each hand, when Cas appears again. His dark head is tipped down, studying the flex of his injured hand.

“We’re gonna have to bunk up,” Dean says through a yawn. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Cas looks from his hand, to the bed, to his feet and sighs. “I...should go back.”

Dean cocks his head a little at that, isn’t quite sure what he’s saying. “If you’re gonna be a pansy about it I can just take the floor.”

Cas shakes his head and closes his eyes. “No, I mean - Dean.” Suddenly he looks up. “You’ve broken many bones, haven’t you?”

Dean blinks a minute and raises a hand to the back of his head, feeling off-balance. “I - Yes? Your hand isn’t broken, buddy, I -”

“No. I mean. Isn’t it better, always, when there’s a clean break? When the bone is fully separated? Completely and utterly in two?”

Dean has always been good at metaphors so he shakes his head. “Listen. That’s some bullshit that girls tell themselves when they’re going through a break-up or whatever. That’s not...this.” Us. “This isn’t permanent, I promise. Okay. You can --”

Cas laughs. It’s the first time Dean’s heard it in awhile but it is an ugly thing. It is twisted and full of hurt. “I told you, Dean. I found something I’m good at. And it’s not something that...fits into your life. When I was an angel, maybe, but now. I don’t want - I won’t return to the bunker, to hunting, to you. All that’s there is...past failures.”

When Dean looks at Cas then it _hurts_ and he knows why. Because Cas is human, Cas is touchable. Castiel the angel, even when he was on their side against Heaven, smelled like the latex from dandelions and had an awareness of the whole world reeling through his head. This Cas is smaller and right there and burns through Dean like his trueform burned through Pamela Barnes’s eyes. 

He’s right there. He’s right there and Dean can finally see him, can finally touch him, and Cas is turning away. That thought has him breaking, has him surging forward and pushing Cas, slamming his back up against the motel wall with heavy hands. Cas gives a gasp of surprise at the movement, a little grunt at the impact, but he doesn’t pull away. 

Dean shudders through inhales, is shaking, has his head pitched down so that that tip of his nose is along the bridge of Cas’s. 

“Dean…” Cas speaks softly, so softly that Dean wonders if it isn’t a prayer and when he opens his eyes, Cas is looking at him.

Dean exhales.

“I...need a shower,” he grits out. And he shoves away from Cas and pushes into the bathroom, closing the door with inordinate care.

The water is running and Dean is standing beside the tub staring into middle distance.

This wouldn’t be the first time, is the thing. They’ve done this before, after that thing in Maine and then just before Stull, and once when he was with Lisa and then not again until Purgatory and -- It’s been a handful of times or so, enough for it to be a _thing_ , but only when Cas was this edifice, this towering metonymy for all of Heaven and divine fate, things untouchable.

Dean hasn’t touched him when he’s human and he doesn’t know what would happen.

When he trails out of the shower, Dean still feels unsettled in his own skin. He pulls on boxers and a tshirt without looking at Cas and then, when he does, he finds that Cas has dug through and claimed a tshirt of Dean’s for pajamas. He has the Bible from the side table drawer out, and is sitting on the edge of the bed, paging through it absently.

Dean takes sits next to him and tries to will up the courage to say all that he hasn’t said yet - that he just wants Cas at the bunker with him. That he misses Cas and needs him there and wants him there. 

Before he can get to it, Castiel puts the Bible aside and lays his hand to Dean’s shoulder. It takes a few seconds. Dean can feel, sixth sense, the lingering shadow of Cas’s hand above him, the pause, and then the determination, the press of his uninjured palm cupping the joint.

The touch fractures something inside Dean and he lets out a low, simmering sigh that might be deemed a whine. Cas startles at the noise but Dean already has his momentum, is already tilting his chin and getting a hand around the back of Cas’s head and pulling them together. They kiss and it’s seismic, it’s tectonic plates shifting, it’s the pull of gravitation on the tides. It is not the first time but it is the first time since Cas has been human, since Dean hasn’t seen him and has had to wonder if he has food, a place to sleep, if he’s safe from angels, from demons, from any number of the things they know come for them. 

They kiss and it’s not the apocalypse, or Dean on his own, or Sammy dead, or desaturated monster thunderdome or heaven, or hell, or leviathans or suburbia. It’s just them. Just Cas’s hands holding onto his head, fingers digging into his hair and just his shoulders dropping back against the shitty motel bed and just their chests dropping together, their thighs skimming. Dean has a mess of bruises along his back and the bandage over Cas’s palm is catching in his stubble but neither of them care, neither of them stop or stutter or pull back.

They’re kissing and it’s different -- or maybe it isn’t, maybe it’s just different in the way that every time before was different as well. Cas’s hips track down along his and Dean exhales smooth and slow through his nose. His hands trace the cotton of Cas’s shirt before reaching for the hem, passing it over his shoulders and head.

A part of Dean, the part that’s always working and always worrying, feels the ridges of Cas’s ribs as he draws his hands down his sides, makes a note to tell him to eat more -- No. Dean will feed him more. Dean will take him back to the bunker and make his meals, remind him to eat and drink and even urinate if he needs that. He’ll help Cas shave, he thinks, as he brushes his fingers over Cas’s jaw and feels a patch tucked near his chin that he’s missed. He’ll take him home and take care of him.

Cas sits up enough that his weight is fully held on his knees, spread wide to straddle Dean, and he wrestles the Dean’s shirt up and over his head. And then they’re kissing again, deep and full, and Cas slowly bows his body down, settles himself into the pocket of Dean’s chest and Dean’s arms come up and around. 

It takes a minute, but Dean gets his feet under him, tumbles both of them back onto the bed in a better position - Cas against the pillows and Dean crouched over him. They kiss, slow and metered, and Dean lets that set the pace. So they finish undressing each other slow and with plenty of touch. Dean catalogues the juts of Cas’s hipbones, the well of his collarbone, the angle of his thighs. Cas is happy just to rest his hands over Dean’s shoulders, to hold him there, feel him there. And when Dean’s exploration brings him to the hot line of Cas’s cock, that grip on his shoulders go white-knuckled.

“Dean,” he stutters out and something in Dean would have expected his voice to shift, as a human, but it hasn’t. It’s that same deep, rough rasp and he’s helpless to do anything but lick it out of Cas’s mouth. “Please,” he mumbled between them.

Dean gets a grip and moves his hand. Every twitch and breath from Cas is a volume for him to study - Cas has always been quiet when they’re together. Any sound made, Dean takes it up greedily. Cas’s hips move to meet Dean’s hand and Dean encourages him forward. He fits his face into the notch beneath Cas’s jaw and mouths there hotly.

Dean releases him, shifts down a little. When he closes his mouth over the head of his cock, Cas’s eyes shut on the barest groan. His head tips back and Dean tracks the glow of the arch of his throat in the dim lighting.

Dean pulls off, rises with another searing kiss and pads to his duffel, shifts clothes around until he finds a wrinkled packet of lube. When he turns back, he’s caught by the sight of Cas: sprawled back, blue eyes so wide and legs still open to hold the shape of Dean between them. They meet sightlines and Cas tilts his head. His eyes are soft and his mouth is a little slack and Dean’s chest feels like it might cave in from want, from longing. Cas is right there in front of him and Dean misses him so badly it’s like he’s got his own Holy Wound, lanced beneath his heart.

“Come back with me,” he says into the thick air between them.

Cas looks down, eyelashes fanning along his cheekbones. “I can’t. You said I can’t.”

“And now I’m saying come back with me.” Closing the distance, Dean drops the lube on the bed, half-forgotten and puzzles a palm against Cas’s cheek, one over his ribs. “Come back with me, come to the bunker. I can teach you to cook. We can set up your room or, fuck, you can stay in mine. With me. And you can be a hunter and help us or you...you can get a job at a freaking Gas-N-Sip in Lebanon, okay? Just…” his lets his sentence hang, feeling the frantic, desperate need eddying through his chest. 

Cas is still looking at him, and even without the angel in him it still feels like he’s looking _into_ Dean, not just at him. Cas pulls him in and the kiss is messy and sloppy and if his need was expressed in rambling, trailing promises then Cas’s is in this kiss. In the way his teeth skim along Dean’s bottom lip, and the way his head cants to the side, and the way his fingers twist into Dean’s hair.

More than anything, Dean wants him.

Shaking, he gets to the lube again and gets his fingers coated and then into Cas. Most of the times before it had been Dean open on Castiel’s fingers, (except for that first time, after the failed excursion to the brothel in Maine, and then the time in Cicero, in the garage) but now, now, with Castiel spread and twitching beneath him.

He’s all but silent, no soft huffing exhales, no stretching keens. Eyes closed, hands gripping at Dean. Dean kisses him. He kisses the soft shadows under each eye, he kisses the furrow in his brow, he kisses the slick part of his mouth and then, as gently as he can, he works himself home into Castiel.

The sigh that Castiel releases is less like pleasure and more like relief. Dean feels cracked open at it, like he’s the one being breached, like he was the one that douchewheel angel had monologued at.

They rock together, an ebb and flow, and Dean fits his forehead to Cas’s. His eyes are open. “I…” Dean works his throat, struggles against the rising crest of pleasure. “I don’t want you to be in pain. I don’t want you suffering.” He’s thinking of that angel, the certainty in his voice when he told Cas he would take the pain away.

Cas doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes, tightens his grip, and kisses Dean again.

*

Dean is fighting off sleep the way he used to when he was a kid and they were in some place solid enough to be going to school. If he just stayed awake a little longer, maybe tomorrow would never come. If he didn’t fall asleep, he wouldn’t have to wake up and he wouldn’t have to get out of bed and he wouldn’t have to lose Cas to Gas-N-Sip and Rexford and humanity.

Thinking about it, his next exhale comes out shaky. Cas, of course, notices. His reaction isn’t to question what Dean is thinking or feeling. He just lifts his hand from where it rested over the curve of Dean’s neck and holds it in front of Dean’s mouth. “Do that again, please.”

Dean laughs softly at the request and that’s close enough to satisfy, apparently, because Cas lowers his hand again. And then he tucks his head and kisses Dean soundly, as if it’s something they do every day. He still tastes like toothpaste, a little, but mostly just - like, human. Like heat and wet and skin.

“Breathing is strange,” Cas says softly, his mouth still close to Dean’s.

Instead of responding to that (because, really, what is he supposed to respond to that) Dean says, “Come home with me, please.”

“You said --”

“I know,” Dean rushes to interrupt. “I know what I said but I was wrong. I was - It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure something out. We always do, right?” Eyes still set on Cas’s, Dean laces a hand up and fits his fingers through Cas’s. “I’ll beg, man, if that’s what you want. This isn’t -- I want you there. Please.”

Cas kisses him again, a soft impress.

“Please,” Dean repeats into his mouth. Dean loses track of time and falls asleep between one kiss and the next.

*

They get ready in the morning, side by side, and they don’t speak. Cas is shy, but generous with touch. He trails fingers along Dean’s back after they brush teeth, he leans into Dean’s hand while helping him pack. He gingerly allows Dean to check the bandage on his hand, kisses him after Dean says it looks fine.

Dean leaves his forehead against Cas’s then, exhales and won’t dare open his eyes. “Cas.”

“I need you to take me to work. I have to open the store.”

Dean feels the bottom of his stomach open up, feels all the swell of emotion rising again. He’s not sure that he’ll be able to do it, to leave Cas, to drive away without him. His breath stutters.

“I can’t leave without telling Nora,” he says, softer. “But after my shift…”

Dean opens his eyes and Cas is looking into him. He’s smiling and Dean dares to hope.

“You can take me home.”

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable on tumblr!](https://sweatercas.tumblr.com/post/624906801482285056/wherever-im-with-you-ao3-deancas-explicit-3k)


End file.
